


Sunflowers In A Vase

by livennadin



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Artist Kozume Kenma, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Kenma is a bit sad, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, anxious kenma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-19 22:19:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14882273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livennadin/pseuds/livennadin
Summary: "I feel that there is nothing more truly artistic than to love people." - Vincent Van GoghIn which Kenma learns to love the people close to him all over again, learns to love his past to some extend for the first time and learns to bury his love for a certain redhead in the dirt, in hopes it will bloom.





	1. Chapter 1

The paint brush wakes up ever so soft waves in the now red water, making it look like the brush is bleeding as weakening hues of red rolls like clouds in the little jar. A small universe, Kenma thinks. A small universe stirring inside the jar in exchange to another small universe becoming on the thick paper in front of him.

 

He sets his brush aside, checking his phone while waiting. There are numerous creaks and a restless huff that makes him look over his shoulder.

 

“You told me you were tired.”

 

Kuroo tosses and turns on Kenma’s bed which he unceremoniously plopped on and faces his best friend.

 

“ _ I am! _ ” He says, bleary eyes watching the artist on the chair, hair a mess even spilled ink couldn’t compete with. “I’m exhausted.”

 

Kenma blows the hair in front of his eyes away, almost golden eyes never leaving Kuroo’s form under the blanket. “Why are you awake then?” 

 

Kuroo grumbles and fake cries into the pillow as an answer. The semi blond lets the small smile pull at his lips as he returns to the illustration in front of him. He grabs a wider brush from his neatly packed supplies because Kozume Kenma can sleep crumpled in a bed full of clothes on it, can eat at a table with barely space left for a single plate, can let his books pile up in that ungodly corner of his room without giving it a single thought but can’t and won’t let his desk, more importantly, his art supplies be unorganized. 

 

He darkens the red on his palette with some browns and a tiny bit of purple before trying it on the spare paper next to the illustration. He rarely gets to draw for himself lately so he savors every second he has just a paper rather than an intimidating assignment in front of him. He fills in the light remnants of the sketch slowly, rolling his aching shoulders only once during the process. He really should listen to Yaku when he talks about posture again. 

 

Kuroo starts humming a song behind him as faded afternoon light invades the room. Kenma only notices that Kuroo has been singing the same song for more than four times now when he’s finished with the watercolor. “Is there a skip button?” He asks in a voice probably too small to be heard. Kuroo silences for a second before starting a different song. Kuroo always hears him, whether he’s talking in a small voice or not talking at all. 

 

“Rewind forward a bit.” Kenma comments again. The taller one chuckles before sitting upright on the bed, then he starts from the chorus, louder and clearer. Kenma closes his eyes. The watercolor is almost dried. 

 

Almost. It’s a fitting word for a lot of things related to Kenma, in his opinion. He’s almost an artist, he is almost “normal” like the rest of his age group. He’s almost going through life okay. 

 

Except, not quite. 

 

And the date doesn’t help either. 

 

The song ends quickly for the younger one’s liking and in the next moment Kuroo is there, setting down a chair to sit next to Kenma. Kuroo’s magic isn’t strong enough for others to feel it and even if it were Kenma would be used to it by now. And he is quiet as a cat so it’s no surprise that Kenma doesn’t even notice him walking the short distance between the bed and the desk— _ if _ he walked, that is.

 

“You called her yet?” Kuroo asks as he leans forward on the back of the chair he turned to sit backwards. 

 

“Not yet, phone calls are scary.” Kenma mumbles.

 

“I know.” A pause. “But she’s your mom.”

 

“I know.”

 

Heartbeats of silence too loud on his ear passes before Kenma clears his throat. “Psst, it’s your favorite part now.” 

 

Kuroo grins lazily as he pats he back of the chair, letting the matter slide. “Oooh! Fun! Do it!” 

 

Kenma shakes his head and smiles a bit, for some reason Kuroo  _ loves  _ watching his friend peel the dried masking liquid off, a white substance that protects the places it’s applied on from paint and is removed when the piece is finished. The younger one grabs an eraser and with the help of the plastic in his palm, peels away. The untouched whites look striking amongst the red-brown complexion of the illustration and now that Kenma learned to wait until everything dries, the paper doesn’t peel off like it used to. 

 

“Ah man... this always brightens my day.” Kuroo says with the same dreamy voice he uses after a prank done well. And with his magic, pranks are always done well. 

 

“You’re so weird.” Kenma snorts. 

 

Kuroo full on grins at that, “As if you’re any better.” 

 

The illustration gently takes off from the desk and flies towards the wall where Kenma puts up works he liked, towards the wall where Kuroo stands in front of and stares at for five minutes every day. “It’s my favorite wall, kitten, keep up the good work!” He says from time to time, a wide smile on his lips. Kenma doesn’t mention that his favourite wall is the one they accidentally threw pizza dough at, trying to be like the man they saw on a cooking channel once.

 

Kenma doesn’t look at the painting that is now perfectly aligned with the other pieces and stuck on the wall, he doesn’t need to. He knows where everything is located in the flat, makes it easier to use his magic. His palette also lifts from the table, followed by the brushes he used. They fly out of the room as Kenma willed them to, and into the bathroom sink to be washed later. Kuroo groans next to him as he throws him a look.

 

“Calm down Kenma, I can feel your… nervousness.” 

 

That’s strange. It’s not like it’s the first time Kenma heard the same words or statements alike from the raven haired but it still leaves him pouting. It is strange to be unintentionally open like this. If anyone asks, he’d say he isn’t noticeable in any way, magic or not, and maybe he’d also say he prefers staying unnoticed -maybe not, the last statement ironically draws more attention. But as usual, people seem to disagree with him because apparently Kenma’s magic is easy to distinguish for others. And it only increases its effect when he’s feeling something strong. 

  
  
  


He had asked Kuroo if he could feel his magic twice. The first time they were sitting under the tree that groaned and grumbled with every wind right next to their apartment. Kenma still vividly remembers how bare branches like boney claws tapped and scratched at his window on the nights the weather was exceptionally bad. 

 

Their adjoined childhood gifted them a lot of scraped knees and sunburnt noses, courtesy of Kuroo’s volleyball love, so it was one of the days where they shared a pack of colorful band aids half-half and stuck them over where knee pads will protect in the future. 

 

“Kuro?” Kenma had asked, black hair matching the older boy’s swaying in the wind.  “Um… Can you feel my magic?” He twirled the band aid between his fingers. Kuroo looked surprised back then. 

 

“Yeah… Yours is pretty strong.”

 

He didn’t ask anyone else about it, fearing the answer.

  
  


The second time was the night before Kuroo left for university. They were laying side by side on Kuroo’s bed, watching the crack they named Jeff on the ceiling. 

 

“It’s going to be… weird without you.” Kenma had mumbled. 

 

A sigh as an elbow nudged his side. “It’s not like I’m walking out of your life or anything. That’s practically impossible at this point, anyways.”  

 

Kenma would call himself a Kuroo expert, proudly; he could tell when his best friend was down, when he was at his limits, what made him happy, if he was planning something or not. No matter what left the taller one’s lips, his eyes were always honest. Maybe that’s why he covered one with his hair.

 

So as they laid down staring at the ceiling, covered in a hesitant blue the moon argued over with the night sky, Kenma couldn’t see Kuroo’s eyes. There was no need. Kuroo’s voice was also honest when it came to Kenma. And it was shaking.

 

Kenma had huffed out a breath then. 

 

“You can’t stop being my best friend anyways, you signed a lifetime contract.” 

 

Without wasting a second, Kuroo laughed wetly in response. “I’m going to miss you so much, you realize that, right?”

 

Kenma bumped his head to Kuroo’s shoulder, much like a cat. They probably looked comfortable to the outer eye, Kenma had thought then. How deceiving. He knew Kuroo was swallowing back strings of “I’m worried.” “It’s a big change and i’m not sure if i’m ready.” “I don’t want to leave you with your parents here.” He knew that one way or another, they both were going to be busy and a little bit distant because of college and college preparations.

 

He rolled his yarn of tangled worries away. One more year, then he’d be off: away from here, next to his best friend again.

 

“Yeah… But I’ll follow you and we’ll rent a place together. Remember?” 

 

“Yeah, I remember.”

 

A drowning silence had engulfed them again after that, in the room they dreamt and talked about university and even beyond. In the room Kenma hid and cried, in the room Kuroo collapsed when everything caught up to him, between the four walls that heard secrets even their owners weren’t aware of.

 

Few more cars passed the street, each of their engines humming monotone songs that start and fade away in a specific span of time, a perfect description of how life is for Kenma.

 

As a weak attempt to change the topic “Say, Kuro, how does my magic feel?” the setter mumbled after a minute. 

 

The former middle blocker hummed, a silent thank you.

 

“It’s like… pulses? Like your heartbeats but magnified. And when you’re overwhelmed it gets overwhelming too. Like listening to a song you distinctly know but it’s only bass version.”

 

Kenma chuckled then. Leave it for Kuroo to be dramatic.

 

“Wow…” 

 

And that’s all he talked about his magic willingly to someone.

 

The rest was counselors, teachers and doctors asking stuff or educating him on the nature of magic. Like they do to everyone as procedure tells them to. On his second year of university, he doesn’t need such conversations anymore.

  
  
  


“Oh shit-” Kuroo scrambles to his feet, startling Kenma out of his memories. “I’m gonna meet Bo in fifteen minutes.” 

 

And he disappears without further explanation, a purple-black smoke swirling where he just was. Kenma sighs as he gets up too, he is used to Kuroo’s transportation. Just… it makes it harder to tell him to pick up bread on his way back because by the time Kenma remembers they’re out of bread, Kuroo is gone.

 

His phone buzzes once on the desk, catching his attention effectively.

 

It’s a text from Shouyou. 

 

“kenma!! Just got out of my exam,.whe w”

 

By the time Kenma takes the device back in his hands, Shouyou sends another text:

 

“wanna meet at the cafe near the library?? i’ll be thrre in 10” 

 

Kenma sucks in a breath just as the pencils on his desk start vibrating. He takes one or two deep breaths, calculated this time, to calm down before replying.

 

It’s not that Shouyou is a stranger, it’s that Kenma woke up…  _ off _ that day. If he doesn’t go out to meet Shouyou he’ll hole up in his room and panic over a single phone call he has to make out of politeness: Making up scenarios in which he’ll regret not calling, he’ll upset numerous people... So seeing the redhead is a better option, or at least, Kenma wants it to be. 

 

“sure. see you there in 20.”

 

Still, he rubs the aching spot on his chest as he changes into a white hoodie with a cat on and a dark pair of jeans. 

  
  
  


Once out of the flat, earbuds in place but no music playing, he makes his way down to the campus. The flat he shares with Kuroo is close to the campus and they go to classes on foot. So it means extra time to sleep in the morning. Very important. It’s small and it gets too hot during summer but it’s okay. They just need the fridge, two beds and the bathroom anyways. Kenma has no complaints as he guesses Kuroo doesn’t have any either. It’s true that the flat is messy most of the time and they go on eating only cup noodles on some days but it’s more homely than his childhood house was.

 

With each two or three steps he takes, his heart automatically picks up pace: After all, it is the route he takes as he walks to classes he dreads, to imaginary stares from other students that has his skin itching, to minutes he’ll spend biting his fingers as the lecturer hands the graded assignments back. The worries are etched into his system by now. Someone flies past him, catching his attention for a second. Couple of meters away, a girl lights up the other’s cigarette with the fire coming out of her fingers. 

 

Kenma sighs softly into his scarf as he fixes his gaze back on the pavement. For the scarf: it’s not that cold, but he dislikes any weather condition that isn’t a fair ground between warm and chilly. For staring at the ground: it’s not necessary or practical but it’s always better when his restless mind isn’t noticing and studying others, when his reckless thoughts aren’t writing tragic stories about everything he sees. 

 

A tall boy with arms full of rolled up blueprints bumps into his shoulder by accident.

 

“Oh, sorry.” He says before walking away. What a perfect reaction, it’s suitable: Just apologize for the minor accident and go on about your day. Kenma doesn’t react to the boy, he has no intent to. He probably should say it’s okay but his voice never helps him out when it’s strangers and when they naturally don’t hear Kenma, he sinks further, feeling stupid for trying. A distinct voice in his brain envies the boy that didn’t even give him a second glance while he’s still thinking about the whole -albeit small- ordeal.

  
  


His legs lead him to the cafe, dragging to a stop right before the door. Thankfully, it’s not that crowded inside and he can see Shouyou’s untameable orange hair from the window like a stubborn tree that hadn’t let go of its burning leaves as it faces fall. 

 

He steps inside and walks straight to his first year friend quickly for he knows he’ll doubt himself more the more he lingers. Shouyou is humming a song Kenma doesn’t know - and even if he did know, he’s suspicious he’d get it from Shouyou’s off singing - and he’s flipping through pages of printed texts. Kenma pries his eyes away, if Shouyou wants to talk about the papers, he will. 

 

“Uh…” Kenma mumbles. “There you are.” He says as he hesitantly sits down across the oblivious boy.

 

“Oh!” Shouyou whips his head up. His amber tinted doe eyes focus on Kenma as a wide smile pulls at his lips. “Kenma! Yeah, here I am,” He chuckles. Distracting. “At the place I told you I’ll be waiting.” Shouyou’s eyebrows scrunch up a bit, his smile turns teasing. Unfair. 

 

“Stop-- What else was I supposed to say?” Kenma pouts as he bows a bit so his hair will cover his face. Once tackling the task of getting inside, he focuses on appearing calm. Or rather, he tries his best to.

 

“Sorry!” Shouyou pipes up, a little loud for the cafe. The artist hopes that his shorter friend knows he made the remark because he trusted him enough. “It’s just funny how everytime we meet you have to warm up to me again.”

 

Kenma opens his mouth to argue, but he stops before he says anything. Shouyou is surprisingly perceptive - or maybe it shouldn’t be a shock anymore, since they’ve been friends for a long time now. Either way, it’s eerie. He bounces both literally and from topic to topic in front of you, making you sure that he’s not paying attention but then he asks about a slight change in your demeanor from five minutes ago, leaving you gaping.

 

“How is that funny?” Kenma huffs out. There is a faint laughter hiding in his voice. He tries to relax his body by putting his elbows on the table between them. He read somewhere that making yourself take more space will help you relax - could be right, he muses. He usually hunches his shoulders and crosses his legs whenever he’s out. Again, he should listen to Yaku about fixing his posture. 

 

But being in Shouyou’s company is easy. He talks when Kenma is silent, he listens when Kenma talks and the art major often feels like the flowers that reach out to Shouyou, silent and slow, when the boy stands in one place for too long.

 

A wave of warmth surges through Kenma. Shouyou’s magic is one of the most powerful Kenma has ever encountered and it makes the freckled boy a tad bit easier to read. It is constant and contagious - and confusing, to be honest. 

 

He’s sure that everyone in the cafe is already aware of Shouyou’s presence but when he gets excited -which happens quite a lot- or nervous, his magic becomes the most prominent. It was scary for Kenma first. Shouyou grabs attention so effortlessly, as if he’s a fire, deeming everyone else hopeless moths. So every time Kenma is with Shouyou, he’s involuntarily under the spotlight too, or is he seen just as another moth trying not to burn but wanting to be close as possible, highlighting Shouyou’s effect? He pushes the question to the backs of his mind to evaluate later.

 

The warmth coming from Shouyou, heavy as if it’s solidified, increases as he looks away then back at Kenma. The light above them flickers to life.

 

“Not like…” He starts. He shoots the light a look, turning it off. “Not like I enjoy seeing you uncomfortable… but more like, it’s… endearing? Because you eventually relax.” Amber irises fix themselves on dirty blond ones. 

 

But when met by silence, Shouyou gestures to himself then at Kenma in motions that don’t really make sense. He elicits a small laugh out of the semi blond when he knocks his papers off the table and shrieks. Kenma wills them back in a stack on the table before they scatter away and Shouyou watches the papers fly back to him in amazement, his previous little panic long forgotten. Four years and he’s still excited about it.

 

“I get it.” Kenma says, but he doesn’t really. “How was your exam?” He asks as he tucks a few strand of his straight hair behind his ear. 

 

The physics major sitting in front of him smiles. He had surprised everyone with his choice in academics which he just shrugged and simply replied with: “I’ve been defying laws of physics for so long, it’s about time I learn them now.” 

 

He shrugs again now. “It was okay. The first year classes are not that detailed anyways.”

 

Then, as his smile relights itself Shouyou speaks again, not knowing what a difficult question he’s asking.

 

“How are you, Kenma?” 

  
  


*

  
  


Back in front of his desk, three or more hours later, his legs tucked underneath him on the uncomfortable chair, he looks at the orange lines adorning the page in front of him. The sun is quick to set when autumn skies make friends with fallen leaves. Kenma briefly registers that his feet have gone numb after sitting in the same position for too long. It doesn’t matter now, he just has to fix the eyes and find something else to distract himself when he is finished with drawing.

 

“Whoop, hi!” Kuroo sings just as he transports into the room. Kenma jumps at the sudden sound.

 

“For God’s sake Kuro…” Kenma turns to glare at the boy standing in the middle of the room, all smug as if his hair doesn’t look like it came back from its date with a leaf blower, smiling innocently as if he haven’t just jump scared his best friend.

 

“Sorry,” He says, insincere. “Whatcha got there?” 

 

His silent steps carry him next to Kenma and he leans towards the desk with a sigh. “Kenma-” Kuroo starts but he is cut by the person he’s talking to:

 

“Called mom. She didn’t pick up, talked to dad instead.” 

 

Kenma can hear Kuroo breathe in deeply. He’ll probably lick his lips too, like he does when he wants to buy himself some time to think. It doesn’t matter now, he concludes. Because comments other people make do not change anything. Kenma learnt that long ago. So they don’t mean much either.

 

“It’s okay.” Kenma says before Kuroo opens his mouth again. “Not my problem, it’s her birthday anyway.” He doesn’t mind how bitter his voice sounds, these kind of things don’t matter with Kuroo. But he would be lying if he said he doesn’t hate making him worry.

 

“You sure?” 

 

_ Are you sure?  _ It’s just one of the questions that leaves Kenma’s mind blank. An unsettling static hums wickedly when someone asks if he’s sure, how is he, why doesn’t he talk much… Kenma usually shrugs at these questions, therefore earning the “aloof” label. 

 

“I mean…” He starts. “It’s really okay, I asked dad to congratulate her for me and he sounded okay, so I’m guessing everything’s good there.” He lets himself act like he believes what just left his mouth.

 

Kuroo humms.

 

“I hope so.” Then he stands up straight from his previous state where he was leaning to see the sketchbook. One of the great things about Kuroo, Kenma thinks, is that he doesn’t really push him to talk. In exchange, Kenma knows that Kuroo needs a bit nudging to talk about things. “How was your day? I got bread on my way back, by the way.”

 

“Finally. I was beginning to forget what it tasted like—“ Kenma mumbles and allows himself to join his friend when he laughs. Then he turns around on the chair to look at Kuroo and to move his legs that fell asleep by now. “My day was… normal, it was calm, I think.” He says as he wiggles his toes. He points to Kuroo with his chin to prompt him to talk about his day as his friend runs his fingers through his half bleached locks. 

 

“Tiring.” Kuroo grins, an easy gesture with his mischievous image. “Bo made me play chess with him, that Charles Xavier wannabe…” He then tugs lightly at the straight locks between his fingers. “And you went out to see Chibi-chan?” 

 

There it is, the teasing tone. 

 

“Yeah.” Kenma answers as he half heartedly swats Kuroo’s hand away. 

 

“And how is he doing?” Kuroo asks. He takes a step back and transports away. Kenma blinks at the colorful smokes dancing before heading to the kitchen. Kuroo is already there when he enters the messy messy kitchen - not a shock. He looks over his shoulder before burying himself into the fridge.

 

“He is okay.” Kenma pushes away the week old newspaper that’s been aging on the table. Why is it there anyways? They could have just read the news from their phones. “Bright and beautiful as always.” 

 

Kuroo turns around with eggs, some cheese and butter balanced between his arms and closes the fridge with his hip. “He loves dubstep. How beautiful can he be?” 

 

Kenma fakes a gasp as he pitter patters to the cabinet to fetch a pan. “You take that back, mister.” 

 

The biochemistry major snorts. “Or what? You’ll make me listen to generic computer made beats with lyrics that don’t make sense?” 

 

Kenma snickers a bit too. He lights up the oven after Kuroo cuts some butter onto the pan. “I might.” He mumbles.

 

“I’m scared.” Kuroo replies immediately in a flat tone. “Scrambled, right?” He throws Kenma a fleeting glimpse as the shorter boy nods: “Are you even asking at this point?”

 

And as they start holding wooden spoons like microphones and narrating the whole ordeal like they’re on a cooking channel, Kenma thinks maybe things are okay. He thinks maybe things can be okay - maybe he’ll wake up feeling more real tomorrow.

  
  


*

  
  


He wakes up with a jostle.

 

His alarm is going off, forcing,  _ drilling _ itself into Kenma’s skull. As he jumps out of the covers, the sketchbook he was drawing on in bed last night hisses as papers roll against each other. The pencil - his favorite pencil - which was also on the bed falls down and rolls away into the interdimensional void lost things disappear into. 

 

“Oh my god…” Kenma mumbles, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms.

 

He changes into the dark blue sweater he spotted in the pile of clothes on the floor. It’s a gift he got for Yaku for his birthday, but when the boy with dirty blond hair that just shies away from light brown politely said that there is no need for gifts, that their friendship is the best gift already, Kenma kept the sweater to himself. And he haven’t said a single word about how it was originally for him whenever Yaku comments on how beautiful the sweater is.

 

It’s funny. He knows it is. Especially Fukunaga would  _ love  _ it. But… just… Kenma kind of forgot to tell this to anyone as a joke and it’s been so long since Yaku’s birthday so, he just laughs silently by himself.

 

“Kenma!” Kuroo shouts just as the art major is getting his huge art folder. “You’re going to be late.”

  
  


Then, somehow, in the next five minutes Kenma is out of the door, looking “presentable” as Kuroo puts it.

 

As a habit, he starts putting his earbuds on. First, the left one, then- Shouyou calls his name.

 

“Kenma! Good morning!” 

 

The dirtied golden gaze meets the burning one. Shouyou’s eyes remind Kenma of rust sometimes, gathered over the years their owner walked the earth, fitting in color, showing that he’s here, he was here. Somehow promising that he will be here even if he creaks and crumbles. 

 

It has been approximately four years since Shouyou grabbed Kenma’s heart and tugged it away - just like how he jumps: It looks majestic, feels enveloping, but it’s probably easy for him.

 

It has been nearly four years and none of the drawings, none of the paintings Kenma has done of Shouyou feels right. Because no artist with gifted hands, no poet with honey dripping tongue, no writer with a gaze that  _ feels _ can do Shouyou’s presence justice.

 

The redhead smiles - it goes straight to the corners of his eyes, crinkling them up. He has an oversized bright blue knitted cardigan on him, and underneath it a faded neon green hoodie. It shouldn’t work. It doesn’t work, but it suits him somehow.

 

“Morning, Shouyou.” Kenma breathes. He wasn’t expecting to see the boy he fell asleep while drawing this early right after he woke up.

 

“Sorry I didn’t tell you anything - I just woke up really really early and was walking around, it was so cold back then, then I said ‘Hey! Aren’t one of those flats where Kenma and Kuroo-san live?’ So - yeah. Thought we could walk to the campus together. Is that okay?”

 

Shouyou rambles. Most of his talks are rambles, but it’s better than it was at high school. He’s more collected now, calmer. Kenma has no trouble following when he gets all excited like this, quite the opposite. Just as Karasuno’s Sugawara said once, Kenma is one of the small group of people who can keep up with Shouyou’s fast talking and seemingly disconnected topics.

 

Kenma nods. “Of course.”

 

He smiles a bit as they start walking, Shouyou hums in appreciation before going off about how thermodynamics is a bit more difficult than he expected. That reminds Kenma of yet another baffling aspect of Hinata Shouyou: He talks a lot. Just never about himself.

 

He pulls out the one earbud he had in place and tucks the white strings in his pocket. They will be even more tangled than the childhood rooted issues he have, he thinks grimly.

 

“-but I guess, that’s part of the learning process. Hey Kenma, wanna go to the library together sometime? I have a whole chapter to revise and - uh? You can draw there, can’t you?” Shouyou turns to look at him then, completely ignoring keeping track of the path in front of him. 

 

Kenma hurries his gaze away:

 

“I don’t really like drawing in public.”

 

After a moment Shouyou turns away too. “Aw, shucks! It’s okay though, we can do something different. If you’d like to, that is.”

 

The artist hesitantly maneuvers his eyes onto the boy next to him again. And he lets himself drag this moment on. The morning light adds lazy yellows, accenting the unruly orange in his friend’s hair, bringing out the barely there freckles on his cheeks. His nose is small and cute, bigger than Kenma’s, nevertheless adorable. There is the faint, elevated line going down his chin. It’s a scar from one of his matches on his third year back at Karasuno, Kenma still remembers the video Shouyou sent him, a pristine white bandage starting at his chin and going under it, taped into place with something medical again. He was giggling on the video, his eyes missing the camera and probably staring at his finger holding the phone up. He was talking in the video, too, the same sentence as Kenma played the whole thing again and again with a heavy heart: “I mean… It would have been better - no, Tsukkishima, why? It, uh, would have been better if it wasn’t on my face but… It’s still a memory I’ll carry.” The older boy kind of wants to trace the scar with his thumb.

 

“Sure.” Kenma hears himself talking. “I’ll probably have new assignments though.” He shrugs, a desperate controversion he displays when all he wants is to spend time with Shouyou.

 

“We’ll work something out.” Shouyou smiles again.

 

His hands are peeking from the spacious sleeves of the cardigan and for a split second Kenma feels like he can reach out and hold one. Normally, he doesn’t let his mind ponder about Shouyou when he’s with him but he’ll allow it for this once -  he is tired, he deserves the indulgence.

 

“Yeah.” Kenma mumbles.

 

He wonders why he can’t just hold Shouyou’s hand, why can’t he just bury his nose in those tangerine orange curls. He laments on why can’t he listen to Shouyou talk all the time, he trips on the question of why he can’t take him out on dates. The boy is filled to the brim with sunshine and Kenma might as well be a sunflower - different than other flowers, his peers, dual toned in all its absurdity, like his hair, and looks a bit out of place. It fits.  _ They fit _ and they fit very well together so why-

 

“Oh!” Shouyou’s excited voice cuts through the brisk morning air between them. He grins. Kenma can see the grass on the other side of the pavement perk up. “Maybe Kageyama will join us too!”

 

Oh, right. That’s why.


	2. Chapter 2

A week or so later, Kenma sits at the other coffee shop they have in the campus. The rain taps away its calm dance on the misty windows, the rich smell of coffee wraps itself around everyone’s wrists like a bracelet, moving along with them. Next to his laptop, he has his art history notes in front of him, and when the notes scatter on the big table they mix with literature notes his friend is revising across him.

 

Yaku cracks his knuckles and taps on his phone to check the time. 

 

“We can take a break.” He says and leans forward. He grabs Kenma’s mug, gives a little shake, checking if he finished his tea. Then he hums as he sits back. He is wearing a baby blue hoodie which Kenma’s sure he has seen on Lev before, his short light brown hair has gone all fluffy from getting wet in the rain then drying again.

 

“More tea?” Yaku asks, his also light colored eyes big and warm on Kenma. He wasn’t teased as the “mom” of Nekoma for no reason, the artist thinks. 

 

“No, thanks.” He mumbles. He drops his notes to rub at his eyes.

 

“You’re not sleeping again.” His friend scolds. He is really good at it after years of practice first from his little brothers then the rascals in the volleyball team. Kenma realizes maybe he was one of the problem children. The thought pulls at his lips.

 

“It’s not that I’m deliberately keeping myself up at this point.” he yawns.

 

“What’s keeping you up?” The literature major asks, hands clasped together on the table.

 

It’s the vivid dreams, a not so pleasant side effect of Kenma’s active imagination: He’s either trapped somewhere, fucks something up or loses someone. He is scared of what his mind will unravel behind his closed eyelids as he sleeps so he stays up as long as he can. And at this point he’s done it enough that sleep shies away from him by itself.

 

Kenma hums while wiggling his toes inside his shoes as much as the black accessories allow. “Well,” He takes a deep breath. “I can’t pinpoint one thing, it’s all messy.”

 

Yaku watches his face with great caution, trying to catch his eyes to see if they’re providing the feelings Kenma’s voice lacks. His voice might be the blandest thing about Kenma, he thinks. Over the time, it is grinded into a grey smooth shape with embarrassment acting like sandpaper, giving nothing away. 

 

As the searching gaze hangs over him, the younger boy looks down at the table instead - just to see another pair of hands, with pale and long fingers, fractured by the fresh scratches on the skin, join theirs on the wooden surface.

 

“Hi!” Lev all but shouts, clad in his wet, shiny, purple raincoat. He didn’t even take the dripping clothing off it seems, for he is sitting next to Yaku, closer than he should, and smiling while his gaze alternates between his boyfriend and Kenma.

 

“Wouldn’t it be easier if you take this off?” Yaku tugs at the raincoat, his chuckle barely hidden as he speaks. The tallest one at the table does as he’s told, shuffling out of the colorful material. 

 

“Okay-” Lev smiles once again, his silver locks are shorter than how he kept them at high school, stuck onto his forehead in patches from the rain. His green green eyes are alight as always. “Hi again.”

 

“Hey,” Kenma waves his fingers slightly. 

 

“What’s up?” Yaku asks, eyes now trained on the newcomer. Lev’s smile widens.

 

“Nothing much. Found a kitty on my way here so I had to find a dry place for him. So I’m a bit late.” He answers looking at Yaku. Kenma watches as Lev takes in the hoodie, smiling even wider. For a second he smiles too. Lev has been… a constant in his life after nagging Kenma for  _ tosses, tosses, I will become the ace, please help me train _ , making them, inevitably, friends. Not that Kenma would want it any other way. 

 

A stranger wouldn’t think Lev and Yaku are dating. Kenma wouldn’t if he didn’t know them, either. They’ve decided it was more than friendship just months ago when Lev got himself a place in the university’s veterinary program, so things are calm and unbearably fond between them for now.

 

“And you  _ had  _ to go get yourself scratched.” Yaku grumbles, directing all the attention towards the pinkish red lines blinking on Lev’s hands. Then he traces the itchy bumps with his fingers. His magic makes them disappear in seconds. Lev doesn’t react to Yaku’s magic, probably used to it by now. Magic always leaves a feeling or a sensation in its wake when used on someone else and Kenma’s heard enough mushy descriptions of it during his high school years.

 

“Well he was scared - oh my god, you should have seen him Yaku-san, Kenma-san: A tabby cat, all chubby and grumpy!” 

  
  


Kenma’s phone lights up with a text while listening to Lev chatter away. It’s from Akaashi.

 

“Why are they like this?”

 

A blurry picture of Kuroo midair… tackling? Bokuto is attached to the text, Kenma laughs softly.

 

“they are a special kind of idiots” He sends as a reply.

 

He fixes his posture by fidgeting on his seat. The second midterms are a month away, so Kenma should be drawing, considering he’ll be expected to draw during his exams too but the thought of drawing in public brings up an image of countless eyes watching him in his mind; so he didn’t bother bring his sketchbook with him. He painfully remembers his lecturers stressing how important it is to draw from life as his eyes survey the cafe and catch up on things he’d sketch and how he’d sketch them - if only he could draw with people around.

 

On the other hand, he also has to learn the names of the masterpieces painted into life centuries before him. He has to learn what made them and the artists who painted them immortal and cherished, hence why he has been staring at Monet’s Impression, Sunrise for fifteen minutes now. This is important, he concludes, I must stare at it more. Or, he argues with himself, I’m just trying to run away from drawing.

 

Yaku’s voice stops Lev from digging into his backpack for a pencil and makes Kenma focus on them again.

 

“Tora won’t be able to make it home this winter break.”

 

“Why?” Kenma and Lev question at the same time with a similar tone in their voices.

 

Yaku drags his fingers that are still on Lev’s hand away. “It seems he’ll only have one week of break from all the exams and matches - and the plane tickets are way too expensive for one week.”

 

“That’s bad.” Lev comments as if it’s not obvious - a pattern he passionately shows in his speech. Yaku watches Kenma for a second before returning to his boyfriend. “Yeah, I was looking forward to seeing him again.”

 

Kenma sighs a “Me too.” before pulling his laptop closer to himself, not quite wanting to acknowledge that his mood got dampened by something this quickly. 

 

He doesn’t like to be affected by things and he certainly has a fear of affecting things in return - which is challenging because to exist is to affect the lives of others who exist in his proximity. Which is controversial, because art is a statement and a voice in forms of colors and shapes and anything you can bend and sew and cut and glue and paint over. Which is bittersweet, because if Tora was here he would ruffle Kenma’s hair and tell him to not dwell on it if he’s not going to do anything about it.

 

The former ace - not the silver haired one in front of him, the one before him - is studying abroad. It eliminates little breaks like this one where they can see each other before the hustle of everyday life takes over again. Also, it makes them miss him. But Kenma was the first one to jostle Tora and yell at him to hurry and get his claws on the opportunity before the whole team joined in congratulation, so he’s not complaining. 

 

His phone lightning up with a new text catches his eyes. 

 

“Takeout for dinner?” The simple text from Kuroo asks, to which Kenma quickly sends a reply to before opening his chat with Tora. It’s not morning for his friend yet, so he didn’t get any answers to his multiple texts he leaves every day. He adds one or two new more, asking about the winter break - then, to be annoying, he sends a screenshot of the mobile game Tora and him are playing, showing off the highscore he beat him with.

 

Monet’s painting is still there on the screen, static and untouchable with it’s rough looking blue paint strokes. The orange sun on the painting bounces off from Kenma’s eyes and reflects on his irises, duplicating itself into a pair of eyes. He wonders if he ever saw Shouyou wearing anything navy blue before for a second.

  
  


*

  
  


Back at home, Kenma’s phone warns him that it has been exactly forty minutes since he set the timer. He puts the pencil down and catches the phone that flyed its way to him to put the timer off. He gets up with a huff and - yeah, just as he expected, the sketches looks even worse from afar. 

 

He cranes his neck right, twice, and then left, twice again, as he walks out of the room. He peeks his head into Kuroo’s room with ease through the open door. 

 

“Hey. Take a break.” He says.

 

Kuroo’s long locks of the asymmetric mess of a hair are clipped back with Hello Kitty clippers as he is hunched over his thick as bricks textbook. He is in comfortable clothes, a soft looking pajama bottom and the owl hoodie he stole from Bokuto.

 

“I’m not really tired yet, though.” He says as he spares the shortest glance ever to Kenma.

 

“It’s been forty minutes, I set a timer, you should take a break now.”

 

Kuroo’s pencil is soaked in bite marks as it moves on the paper and scratches away a note. Kenma loves his best friend, he really does, but he has always been a pencil’s biggest nightmare after fire, so he’s not even allowed near Kenma’s pencils.

 

“But there’s a lot to cover in this chapter.” The biochemistry major says, yet his tired eyes betray him and he has to rub at them. 

 

Kuroo is an overachiever, an overworker and if there’s such word, he’s an over-carer too. He juggles his straight A’s and AB’s, his internship applications, his place in the university’s volleyball team’s starting line up with an attentive schedule and Kenma has a suspicion that he got his thesis proposal down even though it’s next year’s work. He says being busy is keeping him happy, it always have, but it also never stopped Kenma from interjecting when it’s needed, it won’t stop him now too.

 

He sighs, leaning on the doorframe and that does the work: Kuroo shakes his head with a small smile on his lips as he gets up. “Fine,” he grumbles while stretching like a cat after a nap.

 

The artist lets out an unashamed “heheh” laugh in victory as they paddle their way to the living room, Kuroo’s hands on his shoulders. It feels similar to the many times they made their way out of the gym late in the evenings when home was the last place they wanted to return.

 

“What were you studying?” Kenma asks, plopping down on the couch and taking his laptop in his lap. Kuroo answers as the shorter one is pushing the half closed lid open:

 

“Disease mechanisms.” He splays out his long legs, one over Kenma’s lap, the other on the coffee table the landlord left them. “What were you doing?”

 

The artist clicks his way on the university's official site, finding the exam schedule for the faculty of fine arts. “Drawing.” All of his exams are in the morning. Great. “All I want to say is that I don’t trust people who actually love drawing hands.” He adds as he leans back on the couch and cranes his neck to look at Kuroo.

 

His best friend’s shoulders move when he chuckles. He tips his head back and yawns at the ceiling. “Yeah… It seems hard to do.” 

 

Kenma doesn’t answer as he navigates on the website again, this time opening the table for the exams faculty of natural sciences will have. He doesn’t remember all of the courses Shouyou has this term but some of the names look familiar.

 

“What’s this?” Kuroo asks after a moment, rearranging his position and leaning on Kenma’s shoulder. “Oh, you’re checking Chibi-chan’s schedule.” He cackles comfortably then. “Do you read stuff about his zodiac sign too, Kenma?” 

 

The artist breathes out an easy laugh as he shakes his head no. From the corner of his eye he sees Kuroo smile before he moves to take the clips off his hair. 

 

“Why don’t you ask him?” He asks, his voice a special tone: curiosity dripped over concern.

  
  


Kenma’s eyes glide down and he locks his gaze on the keyboard. “We haven't talked in the last week or so. Don’t want to disturb him.” His voice is all but a murmur as the fan integrated to the laptop whines almost angrily. He can sense Kuroo thinking in the relative silence, can hear that he’s worried over how Kenma feels about this. In a sense, it makes him feel small. 

 

Kenma should be able to maneuver his way through his social life without feeling the possibility of a breakdown breathe down his neck. And at this point, he should have been able to do something about his feelings for Shouyou many times now.

 

“He usually texts first - and shoots a few messages every day. But for the last… eight days? It’s been radio silence.” He continues. Because if he doesn’t voice his concern, it will eat away at his chest more until his collarbones are left visible alongside the thorns he is sure that’s growing inside his ribs.

 

Kuroo takes a deep breath, shifting. “Chibi-chan is not the type to purposely ignore someone. I think he has some stuff keeping him busy.”

 

The artist nods slowly while biting his lip. He hopes it’s something about school keeping Shouyou away rather than something wrong in the redhead’s life. He hopes it’s not him. He hopes Shouyou isn’t bored of him - or worse, he hopes he haven’t figured out Kenma’s crush and isn’t weirded out by it - what if he’ll never want to see him again-

 

“Say, Kenma,” Kuroo’s voice jolts him out of the spiraling thoughts after how long, Kenma has no idea. His friend ruffles his hair back into its old shape as he talks again: “You know Tora’s not coming for the winter break, right?” He is talking in his collected captain voice, Kenma notices. He probably still uses this voice, given that he’s Bokuto’s vice captain now.

 

“Yeah.” He looks at his friend through bleached locks that rebelled their way in front of his eyes. 

 

“Are you planning on visiting home?” 

 

He doesn’t want to. At all. 

 

He foolishly promised himself to not to return to the house coated with memories, covering every inch of the muted, dirty white walls. He promised to not to return to the self he foolishly thought he left there, but he did: Last summer he returned and found out the tree him and Kuroo used to sit under got cut for a patch of a boring parking lot that will sit idly and burn under summer suns, he returned and found out that mom gave up on tidying the place altogether, he returned and found his room untouched, as if the ghost of the fifteen years old Kenma, who was already a ghost to begin with, still curls under the bed and tosses and turns and aches himself to sleep. 

 

He returned with a cage around his heart, only to get it beaten down with every new wrinkle he noticed on his parents’ faces, making the steel prison impossibly tighter. He returned with a lump in his throat, only to have it get knotted over and over again with the guilt.

 

And he  _ will _ return again because he feels like he is pulling at the weakening strings tying him to his parents, and despite having counted down days to move out, he’s not ready to snap them off yet. He will return because on the days he can get himself to answer the phone, mom sounds like crying.

 

“I think so.” He answers, shooing away the silence looming over them. “I should go.”

 

Kuroo draws in a long breath. The whole setting is too familiar.

 

“But do you want to?”

 

Kenma closes his eyes, rolls his wrists. Kuroo knows better than anyone how a single flat in Tokyo still makes the whole world narrow on him, since the flat next door to Kenma’s does the same to him.

 

“I’m nervous. But running from it makes it worse.” The words are surprisingly steady in the near midnight hour under their ugly lamp’s light. It’s a conclusion Kenma came to on his way back to their shared flat as the summer died away at the hands of the autumn they’re living in now.

 

He opens his eyes as Kuroo glances away. They don’t talk for a while.

  
  


Then, “I was planning on bringing Akina here for a couple of days - maybe a week.” He says. Kenma doesn’t have to look to know the expression on his face but he does anyways: Kuroo is looking at the end of the hoodie he’s fiddling with, eyes downcast, lips a thin line.  

 

Akina is Kuroo’s sister, now thirteen years old with auburn ponytails framing her face as she sometimes smiles with a bit of crooked teeth under braces. And at this point, she might as well be Kenma’s sister too, not that he’s great with kids, he’s just comfortable with anything Kuroo last named.

 

“It’s all fine by me.” Kenma answers as he knocks Kuroo’s feet of his lap to change his position. “I’ll clean my room before leaving so she can sleep there.” 

 

The older boy’s eyes find Kenma again and he smiles rather sadly. 

 

“I sometimes wish she could stay all the time.” He murmurs, a rare occasion on the messy haired one’s behalf.

 

“She’s just thirteen. She needs a parent around. Plus, we can’t really cook well and she needs a steady diet, not to mention there isn’t a middle school close to here.” Kenma lines the words carefully, slowly. Akina is a sensitive topic. “And we both are usually busy and come home late. It’s better that she’s with your mom.”

 

Kuroo’s smile twitches in place. He sighs as he looks away again. “I know… I just - I don’t like leaving her alone there.”

 

Kenma remembers the day Akina got adopted into the Kuroo household. She was four, chubby and shy as she was being introduced to twelve years old Tetsurou and eleven years old Kenma. Despite the initial silence, they had a new hero in their imaginary adventure games and an eager ball girl bringing them back the volleyball shortly after meeting that day. Kuroo had warmed up to her in no time, being good with children even when he himself was a child.

 

When their mothers get divorced, right after their mama, one of Japan’s most successful businesswoman went bankrupt, Kuroo started doing more to fill the gap their withdrawing mothers left before Akina could notice it. He took his sister to school himself on mornings and picked her up together with Kenma on afternoons. Even when they had practice, he’d go get Akina home first, then he’d rush back to Nekoma. He braced it head on when his mama had to leave the country, therefore not being able to help her ex wife take care of them. He tried to fill the ever growing silence inside the house with all he could think of.

 

Without a luxury to fail his classes, he worked himself into the best classes, the stress catching up to him in shaking hands and erratic breathing Kenma had to find a way to pull him out of before every exam.

 

His working and protecting tendencies stuck with him through times he distracted Akina from what was falling apart, helped his mom stand her ground through it all and lended Kenma a shoulder to lean on all the while.

 

Blurry memories of dull days Kenma never wishes to return to flows in front of Kenma’s eyes as he watches his best friend who missed out on the carefreeness his youth should have brought him but managed to stay caring somehow.

 

“Tetsu.” Kenma says after a minute, a warmth for the strong boy next to him pooling in his voice.

 

Kuroo’s head whips towards him, eyebrows raised in question.

 

“I’m sorry you had to grow up abruptly.” 

 

His eyes widens slightly as Kenma finishes his sentence, then his brown irises settles into a haze that looks timeless, not quite here, but everywhere they have existed in.

 

“Don’t be.” He answers after a sad chuckle. “Some things just  _ are _ . They’re not something poetic - they just happen. And you live with it.” He drags himself up from the couch, stretching as he looks at the artist. “That’s how I accepted it all.”

 

He looks just like the words that left his mouth: at ease in a faded state.

 

It sounds like giving up to Kenma. 

 

A scorching tear is on the tip of the tongue, threatening to bleed color into his words if he speaks. He doesn’t want Kuroo to  _ live with it _ he just wants him to  _ live despite it _ . He wants his best friend to admit he’s sad, he has been sad over it all. He wants to tell him it’s okay if he’s sad. But he only finds it in himself to blink as Kuroo smiles again. Genuine and so blue that Kenma can’t bear to look.

 

“Thank you, though. And don’t stay up late.”

 

And with a reassuring pat on Kenma’s knee, Kuroo blends into the darkness of the hallway.

 

Kenma sits still for a minute or two, breathing in and out, seemingly not interested in anything more than that.  _ Some things just are.  _ The words are distorting the static of his mind.  _ And you just live with it.  _ That’s nonsense. You can’t change anything if you accept them - if you don’t get angered by them. Why can’t Kuroo see it? 

 

His hands shut the laptop off in autopilot and he gets up. Objects around the living room fly back into their respective places as Kenma’s magic tidies the room. He shuffles out and turns the light off. The sudden darkness envelopes him like white noise. The flat is too silent now.

 

When he’s back in his room, he turns on the artificial light the ceiling lamp promises; wishing he had Shouyou’s light with him instead. He makes his way to his desk and the hand practices he made on it. Now that he looks at them again, they don’t look so bad. They’re proportional. 

 

He bites his lip in thought. Maybe he needs to give it some time and return to Kuroo’s words again for them to make sense.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


Kenma’s classes do not go as easily as pronouncing their names go. His hand is aching after his one hour long studio and his mind is alternating between  _ your lines were too stiff  _ and  _ you have a drawing submission at ten am tomorrow  _ to swirl around inside his skull.

 

He purposely avoids looking at his classmates’ works as he knows he’ll start comparing his to what he’ll see. He slings the long strap of his red art folder on his shoulder, frees his hair from the lazy updo and walks out of the studio.

 

He reasons he can afford not putting his earbuds in as he thinks of his colorful ideas, his gaze on the boring wooden floor. The walls inside the faculty building proudly shows off the various works numerous art majors made, framed and polished. Kenma ignores the tall girl and the green haired boy standing in front of his first year final assignment hanging off the wall. He tries to calm his heart through long breaths - but both his inhales and exhales are shallow. It is a fear of him to be breathing loud enough for others to hear.

 

Once finally out of the faculty building, he quickly gazes around, thinking what he should do now. He has the whole day and an assignment to paint with coffee, so maybe he should simply go get coffee and head back to the flat. 

 

But, it sounds truly, regrettably boring.

 

He fishes his phone out of his big pocket. His comfy jacket wraps him in a lovely shade of brown and Kenma pulls his hoodie over his head as he finds the chat he’s searching for. The date of the last message is mocking him, he swears. It’s nine days ago. Of course Shouyou was the one to text last.  _ Of course _ Kenma was the one not knowing how to carry the conversation on.

 

His thumbs hover over the screen, hesitant.

 

What should he say anyways?  _ Hey sorry I suck at keeping in touch… but… you see, I’m in love with you so don’t deprive me of yourself and meet me somewhere maybe? _

 

With a sigh he locks the phone, hitting the device softly to his lips in thought. A couple passes by him with flower crowns on their heads as if it’s spring. He averts his gaze back on the pavement. Maybe it is warm and sunny for the two of them under the sun of their love or something mushy like that. Still, the weather in single people land is cold enough for Kenma to grumble when a strong wind slaps him.

 

He gets his phone back in his hands and sends the texts before he can delete them.

 

“sorry it’s been a long time.

 

you free today?”

 

Then he clutches the phone as his small stomach - at least everyone believes he must have a small stomach - flips itself over.

 

There is someone hunched on the bench as Kenma walks slowly. He notices the crumpled papers next to the person, scattered on the wooden seat. He wonders if they’re an assignment - or notes. He wonders if the stranger is being crushed under the stress grades and deadlines bring hand in hand. If the person on the bench is a first year; it must be harder, naturally, adapting to university. Maybe the stranger is upset because they’re feeling like they are disappointing their parents - maybe their parents sent them here and financed their education under harsh conditions, making the guilt double up. He wonders and wonders and only wonders.

 

Kenma tears his eyes away as he scolds his mind for going off in sad scenarios again. In an alternate universe, he thinks, he’d go sit next to the stranger and ask what’s wrong, ask if they need someone to talk. But in this reality Kenma is never the person he wants to be.

 

His phone buzzes in his hand. “i’m free until 3pm!!! do you want to meet up?”

 

He exhales shakily. “the cafe by the library again?”

 

Shouyou’s response is immediate like the nerves he lights up in Kenma. “on myway” 

 

The artist walks faster. He knows Shouyou enough to think of paths their conversation is likely lead down, so he busies himself with possibilities.

 

Only when he’s in front of the cafe he remembers the distraught stranger. The thought of forgetting something that was important to him pulls the ground from underneath his feet. His chest feels heavy: Was he not sincere in his thoughts if he forgot them this easily? 

 

The air around him feels warmer the next moment, and he can feel the smile forming on his lips. Sure enough, “Hey.” Shouyou’s voice comes from behind. Kenma forgets about everything else again.

 

He turns around and presses a hand over where his quickened heartbeats rumble. 

 

Shouyou is wearing a neon yellow raincoat that makes shuffling sounds every time the redhead moves, it clashes with his vibrant orange hair and honestly hurts Kenma’s eyes. Even though, it doesn’t unnerve him the way Shouyou’s smile does: It’s not bright and open as always, it’s wobbly and forced.

 

Claws of dark smokes close around his rib cage. 

 

“U-um, how are you?” Shouyou sputters out, gaze elsewhere. 

 

The semi blond isn’t fond of being stared at and eye contact is on thin ice as a concept. But the slightly shorter body in front of him - that should have been in his arms - defies these statements too. He, in fact, does like it when Shouyou’s the one noticing him, even if he can’t always bring himself to answer the gaze.

 

So this fleeting of ablaze amber eyes is troubling. 

 

“Shouyou.” Kenma drags a deep breath in. “Did I do something wrong?” Better get down to the point and spare them both from an awkward dance.

 

Sunlight flickers off from Shouyou in rushed sparkles, a wall of warmth hits Kenma. The first year’s strong magic always leaves the former setter’s skin tingling sweetly but he doesn’t like it this time.

 

“You?” His friend sounds surprised-

 

Someone excuses themselves gruffly and passes from between them to get inside the cafe. Kenma had no idea they were blocking the door. He seems to forget about a lot of things in the sun child’s presence. Unsurprisingly, Shouyou’s already short attention span dissolves into thin air with the intrusion so the artist wraps a hand around his friend’s arm - he is welcomingly warm - and drags them both inside the cafe.

  
  


Once seated, once he hesitantly lets go, he asks again quickly to end Shouyou’s fidgety torture:

 

“Is it something I’ve done? You can say if that’s the case.” 

 

Shouyou flinches and Kenma just wants to hold him and caress the guilty look off his face.

 

“No, no, no.” He shakes his head far too fast. “It was me. I’m sorry I’m overwhelming you.” He speaks as if admitting murder, all pained and stiff.

 

Kenma blinks. Once. Twice.

 

All this time he was sure he somehow annoyed the first year but - but Shouyou thought  _ he _ was the problem?

 

“Um,” Kenma’s eyes flicker towards the waitress sliding her way over the floor to take orders, her feet actually hovering above the ground, then back at Shouyou. “But you’re not.”

 

The physics major licks his lips, the artist hopelessly watches the motion.

 

“You sure? I - I thought, so you don’t really talk much and um, I talk  _ a lot _ \- at least that’s what everyone says and it must annoy you at some point?” His hands fly up to scratch at his cheek - his skin is like a star map painted with freckles and it’s richer than his in color, Kenma loves it - then the other scratches at the ragged surface of the table separating them.

 

Kenma leans forward as Shouyou’s focus collects itself fully. Every single light inside the cafe flickers once randomly.

 

“Shouyou,” He loves how the name tastes on his lips. “You don’t annoy me. At all.” Lithe shoulders covered by the offending neon color relax at his words. 

 

“Also,” Kenma sucks in another breath as Shouyou’s nervous magic melts into a distinct buzz. “We’re friends, I’d tell you if I ever got uncomfortable.”

 

Those beautiful doe eyes light up. “You would? I mean, you will? From now on?”

 

Sometimes Kenma worries about how easily his first year friend trusts, but then he remembers: It takes bravery to be vulnerable. Well, not that Shouyou is the most open person, either, but still. 

 

“Yeah. On one condition: You’ll do the same too.” He tips his head down, watching the hands curled on his lap. From the shy glance he sends up, he sees Shouyou smiles genuinely for the first time after they’ve met up. Breathtaking.

 

“Sure!”

  
  


In the next ten minutes they settle into a comfortable pace:

 

The waitress comes in sweeping with menus stacked in her arms, Kenma asks if Shouyou can order him apple pie, the waitress comes back to take both the menus back and their orders, Shouyou does the talking for them both.

  
  


“Who says you talk a lot?” Kenma blurts out after turning the question from left to right, inside out, up and down.

 

“Huh?” Shouyou tilts his head. Unjust. Too adorable. “Oh!” He shouts then, acquiring a couple of stares. “That! Well… nearly everyone? I’m used to it.” He attempts to chuckle, to shrug even, his messy hair bouncing. It is not convincing to Kenma’s expert eyes, reading people, as much as he doesn’t like it much, is second nature to him.

 

“Everyone?” He pouts.  _ Then no one deserves you. _

 

Shouyou looks up into his eyes. Something shifts in his gaze as he blinks.

 

“Not you, though. You never said that.”

 

The waitress bringing Kenma’s apple pie and Shouyou’s  _ oh God no, too sweet- But that’s the point, Kenma!  _ coffee saves the artist from the intensity of the moment. He’ll overthink it later, for sure. But now he just watches his friend thank the cafe staff attending to them.

 

“So,” Kenma clears his throat. He’s still not that good at steering conversations. If someone asks something, he’ll probably answer; if he needs to say something, he’ll possibly speak. But neither him nor Fukunaga can do “casual talks” as previously screeched by Kuroo, Yaku and Tora. They even went through the trouble of helping them in between practices - Tora gave up first when Kenma said he sees no point in small talk and Fukunaga just straight up shushed him. That’s all the sociability advice he ever got. “What have you been up to?”

 

Shouyou stops cooing at the colorful sprinkles on his coffee and hums. “Well,  continuous media mechanics is kicking my ass.” He laughs. Bright. Beautiful. “Also, Kageyama has been insufferable - he gets so cranky when he’s sick - wait! Wait, this doesn’t answer your question.”

 

Kenma chuckles - Shouyou joins him. Familiar. 

 

“What I’m tryna say is - Classes have been taking most of my time. And practice.” 

 

Kenma nods, his hair moving along with the motion. Shouyou watches the bleached ends sway with a little smile on his lips. Kenma allows himself to bask in it. After all, he waited.

 

Shouyou is not in the starting line up of the team,  _ yet  _ as he likes to add. The artist remembers how the physics major pushed his lips in a straight, strained line as he said it felt like a slap. Still, he never skips practice.

 

“Well, same with me. Minus practice, of course.” Kenma says after a moment, causing Shouyou to grin. The cream on the coffee graced him with a white moustache, the semi blond catches himself wanting to kiss it away.

 

Shouyou starts bouncing his legs while placing his elbows on the table. “You should still exercise though.”

 

Kenma pushes his plate full of that sweet, soft, delicious pie towards his friend and holds up his fork for him. Kuroo would cry if he were there. The first year takes the utensil without wasting a second - it’s natural after the water bottles they’ve shared during training camps. It’s natural after the walks they went on, having heartfelt conversations. It’s natural, Kenma realizes, because they’re close.

  
  


They talk about anything and everything - Shouyou still takes the lead but always,  _ always _ listens when Kenma contributes to the topic. He asks what Kenma thinks of certain unique situations and asks how he feels about mundane things, making them less bland. At one point they both have their elbows rest on the table, leaning in close.

 

They talk until Shouyou has to leave for his lab.

  
  


“Kenma.” __ Shouyou says after he stubbornly pays for both of them - Kenma takes a mental note to treat his friend next time. 

 

“Shouyou.” He answers because he likes saying the name. Scratch like, he  _ loves _ it.

 

The boy in front of him smiles. The branches of the tree they’re walking past rustles even though there’s no wind. It probably tries to reach out to Shouyou, Kenma muses. 

 

He has a cup of filter coffee in his hand to paint his assignment with as he walks Shouyou to his laboratory. The redhead stays silent for some time. 

 

“I was scared being able to see each other every day would - um, would bore you or somehow would put a strain on our friendship.” 

 

Kenma can’t say he wasn’t scared of the same thing too: Maybe being away was what made the times they’ve spent special. Maybe if they could spend time together whenever they want, it would break the spell.

 

Shouyou stops after saying that and turns to the artist. “Thank you for proving me wrong, Kenma.” He smiles, big and genuine; and Kenma immediately smiles back - without a care of how it looks.

 

“But I didn’t do anything different.” He answers with a breathy laugh. Shouyou rolls his eyes, a grin stretching his lips. Then, he closes the gap between them and drags Kenma into a hug, mindful of the coffee.

 

“Just say ‘You’re welcome.’” He laughs as the taller one - by two inches or so - wraps one arm around him. 

 

Kenma chuckles. Shouyou has always been an affectionate person. “You’re welcome, Shouyou.”

 

He knows the hug is friendly. That’s what friends do. They hug in greeting and goodbye. Still, he holds a little bit tighter than he probably should and lingers a second or two before letting go. After all, he waited. He waited when their answers to “Where do you live?” were different. He waited when Skype calls were the only option. He waited when Shouyou was far out of his reach, not only physically. 

 

After all, he’d wait four more years, if only Shouyou gave the word.

 

They part and the ball of sunshine takes a step away. “Text me when you get home!”

 

Kenma waves. “My flat is just five minutes away.”

 

“Still!”

 

He sighs to himself when the boy he loves disappears into the building.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


“For fuck’s sake. Will you please get up?”

 

It’s winter now, roughly a month has passed after the second midterms. The snow boldly piles everywhere it can reach and the cold sheepishly invites itself inside through every single crack.

 

Kenma is currently splayed out on the couch like a starfish, not even sparing a glance towards Kuroo’s way.

 

“Kuro.”  He whines to the ceiling. “Kuro. He said he takes screenshots of my drawings to look at them later.”

 

Kuroo shuffles inside the living room, a telltale beep and a click of a cd case opening being the only sounds there is for a while. The couch creaks with the additional weight when Kuroo plops down after pushing Kenma’s legs away. 

 

“Wow. He must be in love with you then.” His best friend says dryly. Kenma fakes a dramatic gasp, shoving his feet towards Kuroo’s ribs.

 

“Ouch!”

 

“Serves you right.”

 

“You say that now,” An xbox controller is put on Kenma’s chest. “But you actually love me.”

 

The artist takes the controller and sits up. His fuzzy hair sways behind his head and next to his cheeks. “Duh.”

 

Kuroo drags the blanket Kenma hogged all to himself and drapes it on both of their backs. He navigates through the game menu, selecting two player.

 

“Kuro.” The artist says again.

 

“Kenma, from the bottom of my heart, kindly, please, shut up.” 

 

The biochemistry major is wearing his Nekoma jacket, says he was feeling nostalgic. The red of it matches Kenma’s chipped nail polish. Despite what he said, Kuroo is grinning from ear to ear as Kenma laughs unabashedly. Those who are intimidated by Kuroo’s misleading looks never learn how fun it is to tease him.

 

“Kuroo,” He draws it out.

 

The person in question giggles as he chooses himself a fighter. “What, kitten?”

 

“Shouyou asked if I’m selling original pieces. Kuro. Kuro. Isn’t he perfect?”

 

An elbow digs into his ribs sharply as a revenge. “Just select someone and let’s play.”

  
  


Soon enough, they start talking about the cat video Kenma showed Kuroo at breakfast, they complain about that Snape looking professor Kuroo has, when they take a break Kenma asks whether Kuroo wants marshmallows in his hot cocoa or not before scurrying to the kitchen to make them. They sip the sweet liquid, the ease between them sweeter than it all. Kuroo asks how should he one up Bokuto in their stupid dares, Kenma gushes about the metallic paint he set his eyes on. By the end of their umpteenth match, they are talking about how days are so busy but when they’re not how it feels off. 

 

Kenma turns his head to fully look at Kuroo. He is smiling, the blanket he had hanging over his shoulders is discarded through his movements to win. He is a worthy opponent when it comes to video games, he’ll give him that. The artist closes his eyes, letting himself stretch the cozy moment. They’ve shared many moments like that but Kenma had never thought of how they build up, what they form.

 

He thinks of what they talked on this couch, roughly two months ago. 

 

Kenma will always worry about Kuroo - that’s a given; because he will always care about him. But now, after giving his best friend’s words time to brew, time to boil and cloud and rain - now he thinks he understands better.

 

“Psst, Kuro.” Lovely brown eyes turn to him, the song the taller one’s humming sizzles and stops. “Thank you for everything.”

 

The semi blond watches his friend take a deep breath, beam and practically throw himself in a hug. “Kenma!” He laughs - it could be cooing too. He pats his younger friend’s shoulder as he returns the hug, snorting himself. “Don’t thank me, I didn’t do anything seeking gratitude in return.” They part as quickly as the impulsive hug started. “Plus, if I start thanking you we’ll be here all day and night.”

 

“Oh my god, you’re a sap.” 

  
  


As their laughter blurs the walls in vibrant colors, Kenma understands. Maybe they can live despite the things that scarred them only if they can live with them first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! this fic once again proved me it will not go easy on me - so i'm sorry if this is a bit late - but i am happy to finish this chapter so i can finally share it with you all!
> 
> thank you for reading and please let me know what you think - i think the next chapter would be a bit more... interesting
> 
> as always you can find me at [@aakaaashi](https://twitter.com/aakaaashi)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! i have a love-hate relationship with this fic and i thought of throwing the whole thing away many times... but i don't want to let it go easily! thanks to Ness and Kal i found the motivation to continue!
> 
> your honest opinions matter a lot and i'm always happy to hear what people think of my works when they read it. hope you liked this introduction to my bittersweet setting, i'm @aakaaashi on twitter if you'd like to come say hi!


End file.
